


A Touch Before Sleeping

by SilverButtons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:24:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverButtons/pseuds/SilverButtons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 1: After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…</p>
<p>After John is hurt during a case Sherlock offers him a back massage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch Before Sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Sherlock fanfiction, and the first story of any kind that I've posted in years. Like, a lot of years. It's really not good. You should probably leave now. 
> 
> However, I have a bunch of other stories in various stages of completion, so if you happen to think maybe I should keep working on them, and post them, feedback is appreciated.
> 
> No beta or brit-pick, so all mistakes and wooden writing are mine. 
> 
> I put a warning for violence, but it's really just a precaution.

It was supposed to be a simple case. Not a case even worth Sherlock's time, according to him. When Lestrade texted about it (Texted, John! He didn't even come here in person.) Sherlock rolled over on the couch and went back to sulking. His dark mood had lasted far too long. There had been a week already of plucking discordantly at his violin, and snapping at John for his manner of typing. John would have happily throttled him if it lasted much longer. 

In the end he negotiated with Sherlock in order to get him out and working on something. He promised that if Sherlock solved the case in less than half an hour, John would put his loaded gun into Sherlock's hands when they got back. He would even hang pictures of people Sherlock hated as targets. Sherlock brightened at that, and John had to resist the urge to ruffle his hair. 

Three days later, they were still going. The simple case turned out to be nothing of the sort, and it seemed at times that the entirety of NSY was involved. There had barely been time for food or sleep, no matter how much John nagged and hectored. The case had spun out of control. One murder led to another, and 72 hours of deducing, detecting, and chasing led to a dozen arrests and a drug-ring busted. John and Sherlock stood in the warehouse, watching as Lestrade and his task force ushered a group of handcuffed men out the door. 

It had been a long three days, but the case had a satisfying end, and John would do it ten times over to see the look on Sherlock's face. His eyes sparkled, and he had the gratified smirk that came with being smarter than everyone else in the room. The men sighed in unison, then shared a glance and stifled a giggle. It was a job well done, and though John would never admit it, his favorite part of any case was the aftermath. That was when Sherlock was content. He would eat a real meal, and sleep for more than an hour at a time. He might even sit with John and watch crap on the television. His demeanor would be relaxed, and sometimes if John were lucky, even playful. The few days after a big case were the best for John, and, he flattered himself, for Sherlock too. Those were the times they were closest, and John could pretend that maybe there was more to their relationship than just fighting crime and sharing bills. 

There had been moments recently. Times where personal boundaries were all but destroyed as they sat shoulder to shoulder in a cab or on the couch, pressed up against one another, sharing heat. Sharing heated looks. It might not ever lead anywhere, but that was okay with John. He wasn't gay, after all. It wasn't clear what "anywhere" might entail. But he had begun to crave the closeness; the feeling that he and Sherlock were sharing something that nobody else could touch.   
In the silence of the freshly emptied warehouse, the blogger and his detective shared one of these moments. John blushed, and shook off his reverie. The amorphous feelings of desire that often left him shaken had been clear on his face. He looked away briefly, embarrassed, but his eyes fluttered back towards   
Sherlock to anticipate if he was going to say anything and call attention to it. 

"Chinese?" Sherlock asked, doing a brilliant impression of someone who had no idea what was going on in John's head. 

John scoffed. "Again?” He let out a relieved breath, hiding it as a quick laugh. His feelings were safe for another day. “Come on. There's a new Greek and Lebanese place I've..." he trailed off as he glanced up to see an alarmed look on his friend's face. He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence. 

A teenage thug who had somehow been missed during Lestrade's roundup stepped out from the shadows between two shipping crates, raising a baseball bat. Sherlock had a split second to see him, but there was no time to warn John before the bat came swinging through the air. John never saw it coming. 

The first strike got him right in the shoulder. John doubled over in pain and the boy hit him again, this time swinging the bat underhanded to get him right in the stomach. John fell to the floor. He would have screamed, but was unable to draw breath. 

As soon as he went down, the delinquent swung in Sherlock's direction, and missed by centimeters. Sherlock watched in horrified stillness, frozen in place by the suddenness of the violent attack. He had been completely oblivious the boy's presence. Seeing John writhe on the floor broke him out of his trance and he felt a rage flow through him like molten iron. The bat came for him again, this time aiming for his head. Time slowed in his mind, and Sherlock made a calculating move to duck at the approach and come up behind the boy as the momentum from the swinging bat carried him around. Sherlock yanked it out of his hands, and turned the boy's weapon on himself. 

On the floor, John was blacked out. It was a brief flicker of unconsciousness, but he opened his eyes, disconcerted, to the taste of blood in his mouth and a body filled with pain. His confused brain brought him back to the deserts of Afghanistan. He felt the sand underneath him and the sun blazing overhead. He reached to feel for the bullet wound in his shoulder. It wasn't there. 

That was the sensation that brought him back to reality. There was no wound in his shoulder. Instead, he felt that the bone had been knocked clean out of its socket. Underneath him was not sand, but cold concrete, and the light in his eyes was nothing more than horrid fluorescents. John groaned in pain. He tried and failed to sit up. 

The pain was enormous, but his mind was clear enough to push it aside and take stock of the situation. That was what he had been trained for, after all. John came to several conclusions, with a speed that Sherlock himself would have been proud of. 

First, that his arm was dislocated. It was too early to tell if anything was broken. That would have to wait for the bone to be back where it belonged. Second, since his senses were fully turned back on, he heard screaming. This came along with the realization that he had been hearing it ever since he regained consciousness. Hopefully that meant that Lestrade would come running because Sherlock seemed hell-bent on beating the hooligan to death with his own bat and John was not in the mood to stop him even if he had been able to. 

John watched with detached fascination as Sherlock rained blows one after another on the boy's arms, curled protectively over his head. That left his torso wide open, and Sherlock took his next shot at his unprotected ribs. John heard the sickening crunch, and his doctor's mind told him that at least two of the ribs in the boy’s side were shattered. That was when he fell to the ground. Their eyes met for a moment, and John responded with an unsympathetic shake of his head when the boy's eyes pleaded with him to make the assault stop. 

Sherlock got in one more good blow, to the boy's right knee, before Lestrade came running with a group of officers. It took them all to hold Sherlock back while Lestrade knelt to assess the brutalized kid's condition. John almost felt sorry for him. The kid was much worse off than John was himself. No one had even noticed him there. He had his pain under control, and was lying quietly, taking slow, deep breaths. The boy was screaming non-stop. He was threatening to kill Sherlock, kill Lestrade, bring charges against them all.

Lestrade looked up at Sherlock and asked, "What the bloody fuck happened here?"

“Your lot of idiots missed this one. He attacked John.” He pointed to the baseball bat that Donovan had taken away from him. “Then he came after me. I was merely defending us.”

Lestrade pinched at the bridge of his nose and shook his head in frustration. Pulling Sherlock aside to speak in his ear so that the rest of the officers wouldn't hear him, Lestrade said, “Christ, Sherlock, he’s got a dozen bones broken. When I came in, he was beaten half to death on the ground! How am I supposed to cover this up?”

“He hurt John.” Sherlock looked oddly contrite, like he was having trouble getting the words out. Lestrade bristled, but listened. Ordinarily Sherlock would have brushed off the situation like he didn't care, but this time he looked at Greg right in the eyes, and with sadness and confusion he continued. “He hurt him. And I… couldn't control myself.”

“Look,” Lestrade began, “I’ll do what I can. But you might need to call your brother in. There’s no way he’s not pressing charges.”

Sherlock nodded. He took a step towards John, but Sally, waiting for him to make another move on the whimpering kid, grabbed at his arm. 

“Stop right there!” she commanded in her best Official Police Business voice. 

Sherlock broke away from her with a twist. She scowled at him when Lestrade motioned to her that it was okay. Sherlock didn't pose any further threat to the bloody boy at his feet. 

John watched the whole exchange in silence. If he opened his mouth, he would scream. 

Sherlock made his way over and knelt by his side. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, concerned. 

John gritted his teeth. “My shoulder,” he gasped. “It’s dislocated. I don’t think anything’s broken.”

“There’s an ambulance coming.”

“I don’t need a bloody ambulance.”

Sherlock smirked. “Well, in all fairness, it’s not just coming for you.”

John tried to laugh, but ended up coughing and hunched over in pain. He grimaced. “Ah, he deserved it, the bastard. Too many American mafia films. A baseball bat? Honestly?”

They laughed together until the pain forced him to stop again. “I need you to help me pop it back in.”

Lestrade chose that moment to join them. “No, John. They’re five minutes out. Just take it easy.”

“I hate to agree with him, John,” Sherlock interjected, “but perhaps you should wait for the professionals.”

“I AM a professional!” he pointed out. “Sherlock… please. It’ll stop hurting if I can get it back in, but I can’t do it myself.” He gave his most pained expression, trying to force Sherlock to take pity on him. 

Sherlock sighed. “What do you need me to do?”

“Here. I’m going to bend my arm. When I turn it out from my body, you push it up and rotate it back into the socket. We may need to do it more than once.”   
John got his arm into position and when he had braced himself, he gave Sherlock a nod. Sherlock grasped his arm and said, “On three?” 

John gave a pained nod. “One”

“Two.” 

“Three,” John grunted as Sherlock pushed and twisted. There was a reluctant pop as the head of John’s humerus went back into its socket. 

“Oh, god!” John exclaimed.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock and Lestrade asked at the same time, both concerned that Sherlock had injured John more than he already was. 

“No, I’m fine. That’s just such a relief.” He lifted his arm and rolled it around. 

Donovan approached. “Sir, the van’s just arrived. They’re bringing in a stretcher for that poor kid.” She paused to give Sherlock a scathing look, and then pointed to John. “Does he need one as well?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. 

“No,” said John. 

“Yes, John. You need to go to the hospital and have your shoulder examined.”

“You’re insane. What the hell is wrong with you? You never go to hospital, no matter what I say. And I’m the doctor, which everyone seems to have forgotten.”

Sherlock was unmoved. “You’re going.”

“I’m not.”

Sherlock turned to Donovan. “He’s going.”

There was no way John was going to win this. Sherlock was far too determined. “Fine,” he said, standing up. “I’ll go get checked out. But I’m not being brought out of here like an invalid. I’m perfectly capable of walking.” He marched out just as the paramedics were wheeling in the stretcher for the boy, who still lay hunched and crying. Sherlock followed swiftly behind, leaving Lestrade and Donovan looking bemused. 

“You still think they’re not shagging?” she asked.

Lestrade opened his mouth, but he had no answer. It was impossible to tell what was going on with those two. And it wasn’t his business, in any case. He sighed. “Come on. There’s work to do yet.”

Out by the ambulance, John was submitting to a preliminary check by the technician. The man rotated John’s shoulder to see if he had the full range of motion, and palpated around the area of the contusion. He asked endless questions about John’s pain level and his history of injuries. John sat through it all without complaint while Sherlock hovered.

The other EMTs were bringing the boy on the stretcher out and John had to move so they could load him into the back. The kid was either passed out or sedated because his eyes were closed, and he was finally quiet. He was covered in blood and John’s instincts as a doctor took over, feeling immense pity for him. At the same time he felt something else, harder to name, but just as visceral. He thought it might be pride in Sherlock for the way he protected him.   
The paramedic put John’s arm into a sling and an ice pack on his shoulder. “Make sure you go to A&E if the pain gets worse,” he said, and turned to hop up into the back of the van.

“Wait! You’re not taking him with you? He needs x-rays,” Sherlock demanded.

“No, this one needs x-rays,” he corrected, gesturing to the kid. “And you’re holding us up. He’ll be fine. You did a good job of getting the bone back in properly. It’ll be sore for a few days, but nothing a hot shower and stiff drink won’t help.” 

Sherlock continued to protest, but the ambulance crew paid him no attention. They finished loading everything up and they pulled out with their siren on. A pair of Lestrade’s uniformed officers followed behind. The kid would still need to be arrested after the doctors patched him up. 

Lestrade walked up as the vehicles were pulling away. “You’ll need to come in and give official statements. I suppose you two want to beg off until tomorrow?”

“Astute as always,” Sherlock said, sulking. 

“He means yes, please,” John added with conciliatory politeness. “For my part, I’d just like to go home and crash.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t we all? You boys need a ride?”

“Thank you, Lestrade, but you know I prefer cabs.”

Lestrade looked up and down the deserted street. “Well, have fun finding one.”

Half an hour later they were still looking. 

First they had to walk all the way out to the main road. The area was all industrial, and largely abandoned. Donovan gave them a little wave as she and Lestrade drove by on their way back to the Yard. John let out a frustrated sigh. He was tired. He was in pain. And now Sherlock was in the middle of a silent, passive-aggressive, strop. 

"Tell me again why they're not driving us?" John said as the car disappeared around the bend.

"I won't ride in the back of a police car."

"Donovan could have ridden in the back with me."

"I fancied a walk."

John shook his head, and sighed again. When Sherlock was in a mood, there was no talking to him. He had a quick answer for everything. 

They walked in silence until they hit the thoroughfare and there were still no taxis to be found. 

"Sherlock, this is the most ridiculous thing you’ve gotten us into in a fairly long history of ridiculous things. We should have been home by now. I'm in pain. I don't want to walk anymore."

"Oh!" Sherlock said, with mock sympathy. "Are you in pain, John? It's too bad there was no way to have that fixed. Someplace you could have gone, where they have things that fix people, like medicine and doctors. As well as a conveyance to get you there quickly. As I recall, you are not an invalid. Right? You’re perfectly capable of walking.”

“Oh, don't start that again, you fucking hypocrite. You never want to go to hospital when you should. There's nothing wrong with me. You heard the medic. You did a great job setting my arm to rights, thank you very much, by the way, but now I'm exhausted, and I ache all over. And we're in the middle of nowhere, waiting for a cab to show up because you've decided that I need to be punished." 

Not waiting for a response, John marched off in the direction that was most likely to bring them back towards civilization. 

Sherlock followed behind, but made no attempt to catch up. They walked another kilometer before John's anger reached its boiling point and spilled over. He stopped in place and whirled around. Sherlock was looking down at his phone as he walked and didn't see John standing still until he had nearly walked into him. 

"What?" he asked, exasperated with John's outburst before it even began. 

"You ruin everything," John accused.

"Excuse me?"

"My job, my social life, my sleeping pattern, and on several occasions my clothes" he enumerated, ticking them off on his fingers. "Half the time you're working on a case or your experiments, and the other half you’re curled into a surly ball on the couch, but I put up with all of it because you're mad and you're brilliant, and between those things you manage to be my friend. Just before that maniac with a bat came after me I was thinking about how much I love going home with you and just... relaxing, after a case. But now you've ruined that, too."

Sherlock's eyes went wide and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. 

"You're going to call me stupid, or sentimental, and maybe that's what I am,” he continued. “But you're a manipulative bastard. I always knew that. But now… I’m wondering if it’s still worth it.”

John looked away, embarrassed. Sharing feelings with Sherlock Holmes hardly ever turned out well. He was about to look up and tell Sherlock to forget the whole thing, to delete the whole conversation, but just then a taxi pulled up alongside them. 

The cabbie rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “One of you blokes call for my services?”

John did look up at Sherlock then, his head tilted to the side in confusion. 

Sherlock refused to look John in the eye. He looked at the cabbie instead, and holding up his phone he nodded, and said, “Me.” Sherlock took a step towards the taxi before he stopped, and without turning around he said softly, “Come, John. Let’s get you home.” 

Sherlock didn’t see it, but the corner of John’s mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile as he clambered into the car behind him. 

The ride was tense. John and Sherlock stared out of opposite windows in silence. Every few minutes one would turn their head towards the other and open their mouth to speak, but would only sigh instead, and turn away. They caught each other once, turning at the same time. Their eyes met, and although no words were spoken aloud, they understood. Both were sorry. Both were forgiven. They didn’t break contact until the driver pulled up in front of 221 and gave a polite cough to get their attention. 

Sherlock paid, and they ambled up to the door, the adrenaline and anger of the evening having worn off. This time when they looked at each other there were faint smiles. Being home was good. 

They went inside and as soon as they entered John collapsed in his chair. There were several things he had to do before bed, but he closed his eyes to rest. A moment later Sherlock was waking him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“Did I fall asleep?”

Since the answer was obvious, Sherlock refrained from giving it. Instead he laid a tray on John’s lap containing a mug of tea, a shot of whiskey, and a small white pill. John threw back the shot before pointing to the pill.

“What’s that?”

Sherlock gave him a look that told him he was being tedious. “Oxy,” he stated.

“I didn’t prescribe that for you.”

Sherlock continued to give him the look, and said nothing. 

John took the pill, and swallowed it with a sip of the tea. It was perfect. He took another sip before putting the mug back on the tray. 

“Good. Now you go take a shower,” Sherlock commanded. “Make sure it’s hot.”

“What are you doing?”

“Following doctor’s orders. A stiff drink and a hot shower, he said.”

“Sherlock, he was a paramedic, not a doctor. Doctors don’t usually prescribe alcohol.”

“You’re very severe against those in your profession. To be expected, I suppose. They do say that doctors make the worst patients.”

John laughed. “Well then, you should have been one. You’re the worst patient I know.” He didn’t wait for a response, but handed Sherlock the tea tray as he walked off towards the bathroom. A hot shower did sound nice. 

In the bathroom, John unbuttoned his shirt and removed it gingerly, taking time to drop it into the hamper. The shoulder joint didn’t feel much pain, but the bruise from where the bat had struck him was turning an alarming shade of purple. It was hard to see the whole thing in the mirror by looking over his shoulder, but John was satisfied that it was nothing more serious than any other of a dozen injuries he and Sherlock had gotten doing stupid things. There was another bruise across his stomach. He was lucky that the bat had missed his ribs. The muscles on his abdomen were tender, but there would be no lasting damage their either. 

John lingered in the shower until the water started to run tepid. The pain pill Sherlock had given him was starting to kick in, and he felt languid and sleepy. He had considered protesting the pill in favor of over-the-counter medicine, but it was clear that Sherlock was trying to help, and John was tired of being contentious. Plus, it would help him sleep through the night.

When he left the steamy confines of the bathroom John didn’t see Sherlock where he expected him on the couch, or anywhere else. His bedroom door was closed. John wanted to thank him for taking care of him, with the tea and medicine, but he supposed Sherlock had been through a rough night as well, and didn’t want to be disturbed. 

John went to his room and put on a clean pair of pants before flopping down on the bed. It felt like it had been forever since he had been here, looking forward to a decent night’s sleep followed by a lazy day. Perhaps even Sherlock’s mood would be improved in the morning, and things would go back to normal.   
John winced as his shoulder gave him a twinge, and he sat up to rub at it. He reached across his body with his right arm to get over his shoulder, but his reach didn’t stretch far enough, even after he pushed at his elbow with his other hand to extend it. The muscle under his fingers was tightening despite the pill and the heat of the shower. John dropped his arms and hung his head. Maybe sleep wasn’t going to come as quickly as he had thought. 

There was a knock at the door. John looked up to see Sherlock open it just a crack. When Sherlock saw that John’s light was still on he pushed the door open further, but he waited for John to invite him in before he took a hesitant step inside. 

“I thought you were already asleep,” John said.

“Not quite,” Sherlock replied. “I was looking for something.”

John scrunched his eyebrows in question. 

“I thought you might be in need of this. It’s something I had around. For an experiment, of course,” he added, as though he needed to justify having such an item. He handed John a bottle filled with clear liquid. It was labeled as a deep-tissue massage oil, an asterisk at the bottom claiming it to be non-toxic and safe for consumption. 

John blushed at the image that arose in his mind, of the circumstances that would lead to someone getting the oil in their mouth. “Thank you,” he said, doing his best to ignore the thought that spiraled out from the first one, casting himself and Sherlock in the roles. “I can feel the muscle getting tight. I was just trying to loosen it up when you came in.”

Sherlock stood there, just inside the doorway. John had never seen him with that look on his face before. If it were anyone else he would say it looked nervous, uncertain. But those were not words in the vocabulary of Sherlock Holmes. 

John continued, “Thank you for before, as well. The tea, and all. I don’t think I said.”

Sherlock’s silence filled the air. John’s heart started beating fast. He felt like Sherlock was dissecting him, and he suddenly felt very naked, sitting there in only his pants. 

“I really am sorry about before, being so stubborn about seeing a doctor. You were right about that. I mean, You’re always right, aren’t you? But about me being a bad patient, and--”

“John?” Sherlock interrupted. 

“Yeah?”

“You’re babbling.”

“Right. Right. Sorry.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I was wondering,” he began, “I thought that you might have a hard time reaching the whole effected area. So, I was wondering, then, if you might need some help. Reaching that area.”

That being the least eloquent thing Sherlock had ever said to him, it took John a moment to parse the meaning. 

“Did you just offer to give me a massage?” he asked.

Sherlock stiffened. “It was an idle thought. Forget I asked. Good night, John.” With a curt nod, he tried to back out of the room but John was too fast for him. 

He stood and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist before he could get back through the doorway. “I didn’t say no,” he told him. He was even brave enough to look right in Sherlock’s eyes when he said it. Sherlock looked down at where John was holding him, and following his gaze, John dropped his hand. “I was just surprised by the offer. I said some awful things to you tonight. And you’re being very nice to me now. You know you don’t have to act like a whole new Sherlock because I hurt your feelings.”

“That’s not why.”

“Then what is it?”

Sherlock paused before answering. John didn’t rush him. This felt like an important conversation. Sherlock didn’t talk about his feelings much, if ever. “You take care of me, John,” he confessed at last. “I want to take care of you too.”

Their eyes met, and John felt one of those moments that he had been reflecting on, only a few hours ago, although it seemed like much longer. Sherlock’s gaze burned into him, and his stomach fluttered in response. Sherlock said, “Please, John. Let me take care of you.”

John licked his lips and swallowed, hard. He nodded. “Where, um” his voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Where do you want me?”

Sherlock smiled, relieved. Without breaking that searing eye-contact, and using what John thought was probably his deepest voice, Sherlock said, “I want you to lie down, here, on the bed.”

John nodded again, not trusting his voice, and not certain he knew what to say anyway.

John lay on his bed, hair still damp from his shower, wearing only his pants. His duvet was soft beneath his bare chest. A puff of warm spring air ruffled the curtains through the open window at his bedside, and John took deep calming breaths of it. The prospect of having his completely platonic, sexually ambiguous, male flatmate rub oil all over his mostly naked body made it hard for John to release the tension from his bruised and aching shoulder. 

Sherlock took the towel from John’s shower and the bottle of massage oil that he brought up and placed them next to John before climbing up onto the bed. The mattress dipped by his sides as Sherlock straddled his thighs, and John could feel the soft fabric of Sherlock’s trousers rubbing against the outside of his legs. He folded his arms up and clasped his fingers to make a pillow under his head. All John could hear in the silent room was the sound of their breathing and the occasional rush of a car passing down Baker Street. 

After John returned from Afghanistan with a hole in his shoulder he had gone through a lot of physical therapy. He would do one repetitive exercise after another to rebuild the strength in his arm and keep elasticity in the muscle and skin. At the end of each session John would let the heat from the sauna seep into him before hopping on a table for the pert little blonde masseuse to beat his muscles into submission. 

As attractive as she had been, John never felt the thrumming sexual charge in the room that he did now. Maybe it was that the low lighting and familiar smell and feel of his bed underneath him brought forth feelings of other nights, tangled in the sheets with faceless women. Or, maybe it was because the man above him had nearly killed to protect him; that his body was in the deft hands of someone turned savage when John’s life had been threatened. 

John’s shoulder ached, but the rest of him tingled in anticipation as he waited for Sherlock to begin. Sherlock was often reticent, but if he had changed his mind about offering the massage he would not continue to sit there, squeezing John’s legs between his own. 

John let out a sigh and let his bones relax down into the mattress. His eyes drifted shut as he allowed some of the nervous tension to flow out of his body. “Ready when you are,” he announced, hoping to prod Sherlock into action. 

It worked. Sherlock said, “Oh, yes. Of course,” as though he had forgotten what he was doing there. He began by pouring some oil into his hand. 

John heard the snap of the bottle as Sherlock thumbed it open, and he heard Sherlock’s hands rub together briefly to warm it. He sighed again, relaxed, as Sherlock’s hands made first contact with his skin. 

The massage didn’t begin at the shoulder as John was expecting. Instead, it seemed as though Sherlock were trying to touch everywhere at once. No deep touches. Just sliding of skin over skin. Sherlock was smoothing the oil all over John’s back, wherever he could reach. It covered his shoulders from the nape of his neck all the way down to his hips, where the waistband of his boxers rested. Sherlock hesitated there briefly, and then moved his hands back up, pushing his fingertips deeper into John’s skin as he went. He trailed them lightly over John’s sides and up his ribs. John stifled a giggle as Sherlock reached his armpits and the light touches tickled. 

At last, Sherlock reached the sore shoulder and began to work on it. He stopped for a moment to add more oil, and then he used his thumbs in small circular motions, feeling around the joint and putting pressure on the tight muscle, being mindful of the livid bruise. Sherlock was careful not to aggravate the injury, but he worked all around John’s shoulder, moving his hands to get at it from the front as well, until it was pliant. His fingers moved inwards, and a high-pitched whine escaped John’s throat as Sherlock reached the edge of his scar. 

Sherlock paused. “Did that hurt?” he asked, concerned. 

John opened his eyes for the first time since Sherlock started and looked up over his shoulder at him. “Not exactly. The nerve endings are sensitive there. Sometimes they can’t tell the difference between pleasure and pain. It just feels… intense.”

Sherlock nodded. Then, looking into John’s eyes, he deliberately touched the edge of the scar again. He used the entire length of his thumb to stroke the place where the pink knotted skin gave way to the unmarred flesh surrounding it. John let out a gasp, and his eyes fluttered. His head dropped back down to his hands. Sherlock repeated the motion, going all around the rim of the scar, eliciting one moan after another from John’s mouth, until he let out a broken sob. The sensation was too much. 

“Enough, please, Sherlock.” He hitched a breath. “Please.”

Without a word, Sherlock’s hands slid away, finding purchase in other muscles. Up and down, up and down, his hands moved on John’s back, kneading, grasping, pushing the heels of his palms into every inch of John’s skin. He spent long minutes on John’s neck, pinching his way down the trapezius muscles. He ran his thumbs down John’s spine, stopping to align each vertebra. 

John’s muscles were pliant and relaxed. His shoulder, while still sore and bruised, hadn’t felt as good since he stopped going to physical therapy. However he tried, though, John couldn’t relax his traitorous mind. The pleasant tingle that Sherlock’s trailing fingers left behind went right through his body and settled in his groin.

Not good. Not good. John recited, growing in restlessness. 

He bit his lips and clenched his eyes, forcing himself to show no outward sign of his arousal.

He counted his breaths. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.

He fought back the whimpering moans that bubbled up in his throat, but he failed even that as Sherlock sat back on his legs and ran his hands down over John’s buttocks to his thighs. Sherlock gave them a gentle squeeze before sliding his thumbs up the inside of John’s legs, just under the hem of his boxer shorts. John inhaled sharply. 

“Sherlock?” he queried. “What…?”

“Shh, John. Just relax.” He squeezed John’s thighs again, higher this time, his thumbs brushing up against where John’s leg creased under the rounded curve of his   
butt.

“But what are you… oh, god.” John cried, as Sherlock’s fingers moved higher still, just barely letting them run over the line where the globes of John’s arse came together. 

“I’m just giving you a massage, John.” Sherlock pulled his hands back down to John’s thighs, digging deeper into the muscle this time, less like the light teasing of skin from before. “Do you want me to stop?” 

“I don’t… I…”

Sherlock removed his hands from John’s body.

“No! Wait,” John demanded. “I… don’t want you to stop.” His chest was heaving. 

There was a pause, in which John was terrified that whatever it was they were doing was over, but then Sherlock’s hands descended upon John’s back again, to the relatively safe position of John’s upper body. 

It didn’t feel like a simple massage anymore. John had noted even before Sherlock began how close it felt, how intimate. It was even more so since he gave his permission for Sherlock to continue. The strokes of Sherlock’s fingers on John’s skin were no longer aimed at relieving tense muscles. They were sensual. Teasing. John moaned, and arched his back up, seeking more of Sherlock’s touch. 

Sherlock pushed his fingers into John’s shoulders once more, before taking a new route, sliding his hands down John’s arms. He grasped John’s biceps and kept pushing down, past his bent elbows to his wrists. Sherlock pulled John’s hands out from under his head and rubbed at his forearms, squeezed his wrists, and let their fingers tangle with each other for a second before working his way back up. His stubbled chin brushed along John’s neck, and John shivered at the contact. Sherlock had to lean forward in order to reach that far down John’s arms, and John felt that Sherlock had taken off his shirt at some point, as his bare chest skimmed along John’s back. It was warm, and John was overwhelmed again with the feeling of Sherlock taking care of him. Being wrapped in such a man, feeling his comforting pressure on all sides, left John dizzy. 

When Sherlock rubbed his way down to John’s hips, kneading along his sides, he toyed with the band on John’s pants. He hooked his thumbs under it, and pulling it back slightly he urged, “Let me take these off.”

John said nothing. He had been doing his best to ignore it, but his cock was aching. He had been hard almost from the start. From the moment the massage began, John pretended that it was something nice Sherlock was doing for him because he felt bad about John’s injury. He blocked the possibility from his mind that Sherlock wanted this to be anything more, and he felt guilty and ashamed that his body reacted in such a way to his friend. 

As the massage progressed, though, it had begun to seem as though Sherlock was trying to turn him on. There had been the brief touches between John’s legs, but John had been skittish, and Sherlock backed off. Following that, though, the encounter had become heated. If Sherlock did know what he was doing, how far would he let this go? How far would John let him go?

“John?” Sherlock insisted. He sounded unsure. 

In the end, there was no choice but to see how events would play out. John had never run from danger at Sherlock’s side before, and he wasn’t about to start now. He nodded. Just once, but Sherlock saw it. 

Sherlock’s nimble fingers pulled, and John raised his hips to help the removal effort. A small grunt escaped his throat as the elastic snagged on his erection. He felt self-conscious for a moment. Surely Sherlock had noticed. An apology was on his lips, but he didn’t let it out. If it bothered Sherlock, or he wanted to acknowledge it, he would. The tacit silence was enough. There was no doubt now where this was going. The pants slid down his legs, and Sherlock dropped them on the floor beside the bed. 

Sherlock grabbed the bottle of oil, but instead of pouring it into his hands this time, he poured it directly onto the small of John’s back. John sucked in a breath as the cold liquid caught him unprepared. Using his palms to spread it around, Sherlock worked the oil into the skin on John’s arse, and down onto the tops of his thighs. John let out a moan as once again Sherlock’s thumbs worked their way up the inside of his legs, this time unhindered by the fabric of his boxers. 

“Does that feel good, John?” Sherlock asked, the smirk apparent in his voice. 

“Hnng,” John agreed, as Sherlock spread his cheeks apart just enough to skim a single finger behind his balls. 

Sherlock took his hands away from John’s bottom, and placed two fingers right at the top of his spine. He pressed hard, and followed the line down the middle of John’s back, all the way down, past the sacral curvature, and slipping fully in between John’s arse cheeks. John’s back arched involuntarily, raising his hips and giving Sherlock a better vantage point for his ministrations. Sherlock moved his fingers over John’s hole, not pushing in at all, just teasing the puckered flesh.   
John let out a shuddery breath. “God, Sherlock. I don’t…” He gulped. 

“I’ll stop, John,” Sherlock reassured him. He placed a kiss at the top of John’s arse, and licked right where his cheeks began to separate. “Tell me to stop.” One hand continued its gentle assault on John’s hole, and the other snaked around John’s side and under his body to grasp his hard cock, sliding his oily fingers over the head.

“Oh, fucking Christ,” John moaned. His brain was frozen. He couldn’t believe this was happening. 

“Tell me to stop,” Sherlock repeated, “or turn over.”

John didn’t even think. He couldn’t. He turned over, rolling between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock’s mouth descended on his cock without any warning, taking him all the way down to the base. 

“Oh my god,” John gasped. “Your mouth is fucking gorgeous.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock moaned around John’s length, sending vibrations through him. 

His hands splayed on John’s hips, thumbs digging into his iliac crests where they protruded under his skin, holding John immobile as he tried to thrust up into his friend’s willing mouth. Sherlock pulled back to the tip, swirling his tongue around the head before sucking John’s thick cock deep into his throat again. John looked down, watching in amazement as his friend’s head bobbed in his lap, dark curls bouncing off of his stomach. It felt amazing too. Tight, wet, heat constricting his length. John’s head fell back to the bed. 

Sherlock pulled off and sat back. John lifted his head again to question the absence of Sherlock’s magnificent mouth when he saw that the man was undoing his trousers, pulling the zip down and yanking them off along with his pants in one swift motion. 

Sherlock crawled up John’s body and attacked his mouth. 

“Yes,” John whispered between fevered kisses.

The men groaned as their erections slid against each other, whimpering into each other’s mouths, sucking on lips and tongues in an absolute frenzy. It was the hardest, messiest kiss of John’s life, and he reveled in it. How could he have considered denying this?

Their kissing slowed, and Sherlock pulled back with a contented sigh. “You’re sure? There’s no turning back, John.”

John leaned up to capture his mouth in a quick kiss. “There never was.” 

Sherlock gave him a mischievous smile, and slid back down John’s body to take him in his mouth again. Slowly this time, and deep. 

John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, not to push or guide, but to continue touching whatever part of him he could. He had to let go when Sherlock slid even lower.

Sherlock pulled John’s balls into his mouth, alternating one, then the other. He licked around and between them, sometimes stopping to place a sucking kiss on the base of John’s cock, sometimes down lower to massage John’s perineum with his tongue, wringing constant sounds of pleasure out of him. Then he moved down further still, lifting John’s arse up off the bed, and curling his legs up into his chest. Sherlock used both hands to spread John’s cheeks wide, and lowered his face, dipping his tongue down to lick at John’s clenched hole. 

“Oh, Jesus, fuck,” John moaned. “That’s so fucking good.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Such a dirty mouth, John.”

“You’re one to talk. Look where your mouth is.”

A mere smirk, and Sherlock dropped his head again, and John was lost. The flat of Sherlock’s tongue moved in long swipes, down the cleft of John’s arse and back up, licking at his balls, and stopping only to suck on his perineum. He alternated with his tongue, pointed, circling the loosening hole, his hands pulling John’s cheeks as far apart as he could so he could penetrate with the slick muscle of his tongue. John’s mind gave up trying to make sense of it all and surrendered to the feeling, tingling all the way out to his fingers and toes. 

Sherlock licked and sucked, and breached with his fingers, relentlessly coaxing John’s body to open for him. John writhed on the bed, desperate for more of Sherlock’s touch. Two fingers inside him now, twisting, stretching, sliding effortlessly with Sherlock’s saliva and the remainder of the oil. The pad of Sherlock’s middle finger glanced over John’s prostate and he whimpered, “Please.”

John heard the creak of the oil bottle opening again. Sherlock drizzled it down John’s length and down lower over his gaping hole. He also poured a generous amount into his hand and smeared it over himself, starting at the base and working his way up, letting out a groan as he touched his long-ignored cock.  
Sherlock ran the head of his cock up and down John’s crack. He nudged at John’s entrance, not trying to enter, just putting pressure on the sensitive spot. 

John sighed. “That feels... oh, god, just do it. I need you.” 

They both groaned as the tip breached John’s hole. Sherlock pulled out, and pushed back in, going farther. He repeated the motion again and again, each time pushing a little deeper until he was fully seated in John’s arse and they were both panting. 

As soon as Sherlock was in all the way, he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the bed around John’s head and kissing him deeply. They stayed like that, with Sherlock buried to the hilt but not moving, and John’s legs wrapped around his back. They kissed, moaning and gasping into each other’s mouths until John demanded that Sherlock move. 

John had never felt such a deep connection with anyone he had bedded, and it wasn’t just that he had never had someone inside him before. He had never felt such love or affection, or the open vulnerability that he felt with Sherlock. 

Sherlock did move then, slowly at first, sliding his cock in and out of John in time with their kisses. John needed him to go faster, and he reached down to grab hold of Sherlock’s arse, digging his fingers deep into the muscle, forcing him to thrust deeper. He started moving faster on his own, and John released his tight hold so that he could run his hands up Sherlock’s back and tangle his hands in his hair, holding their mouths together. John’s neglected cock rubbed slick between their bodies, grazing Sherlock’s stomach with every thrust. 

When Sherlock pulled back onto his knees the angle of his entry changed and John cried out as Sherlock’s cock dragged over his prostate. “Oh, fuck, yes,” he moaned. 

“Do you like this, John?” Sherlock asked, as he repeated the movement, nudging the delicate spot as deliberately as he could.

John looked into his eyes. It was not ego asking. He saw vulnerability, and the desire to please. After all this, he still wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. 

“Oh, God, it’s amazing. You’re amazing. I never knew it could feel like this.”

Sherlock lifted John’s legs up onto his shoulders and cradled his arse in his hands, giving himself the leverage to thrust as deeply as he could. He slid in and out a few more times before he said, “I want you on your knees, John.” He pulled out all the way, and both men groaned at the loss. 

John rolled over and scrambled up onto his knees, feeling that there was no request of Sherlock’s that he could turn down. Sherlock moved up behind him and lowered his head to place sucking kisses on John’s neck while his arms wrapped around him. One arm slid up John’s chest, holding their bodies together while the other reached downward and grasped at John’s straining erection. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Sherlock admitted, whispering into John’s ear while he jerked his well-oiled cock relentlessly. “But I never let myself think that I could have you.”

Words got lost somewhere between John’s brain and his mouth. His heart burst to say that he felt the same, but the only sound he could manage was a choked series of gasps. Instead, he responded with his body, pushing back to rub purposefully against Sherlock’s chest, and turning his head as far as he could to reach for a kiss. It was not a position from which he had ever kissed a woman, but that only solidified in John’s mind how right this all felt. How natural.   
While they kissed, Sherlock positioned John’s body. He nudged his legs further apart, and leaned him slightly forward so that John needed to brace his arms on the wall in front of him. Breaking the kiss only long enough to grab his own cock and find John’s entrance, Sherlock pushed back inside of him in one long thrust.   
John moaned at the intrusion. Sherlock kept his hand moving on John’s cock while his other arm was holding tight for leverage around his chest. John was completely overwhelmed, surrounded by Sherlock from every direction, inside and out. His legs were shaking, and as Sherlock rocked their bodies together in a building rhythm, John felt heat coiling in his belly. 

“You will let me have you, won’t you?” Sherlock slowed his thrusts, making sure that every one dragged over that spot inside of John’s body that was slowly driving the man crazy. “Answer me, John. Are you mine?”

“Yes. Oh, god, yes,” John whined, barely comprehending what was being said. 

“I could have lost you today. I can’t lose you, John.” He brought their mouths together in another punishing kiss. 

John pulled his mouth away, panting. “Oh, god, Sherlock. Harder. Please. I’m so close.”

Sherlock growled and sped up his assault on John’s prostate. He tightened his grip around John’s cock and pumped it in time with the intensified rhythm. 

“Are you going to come for me? I want to hear it,” Sherlock pleaded in his ear.

John’s hips bucked and he cried out, “God yes, right there!” He could feel Sherlock trembling with effort behind him.

Sherlock gave a few more thrusts and found his release first, burying himself to the hilt. John could feel the pulsing inside him, and he had just enough time to think I wonder if women feel it like that when I come inside them before the novelty of the sensation pushed him over the edge. 

Sherlock caught as much of the come spurting from John’s cock as he could, in an effort to save the pillowcase beneath them. It was an almost hopeless cause as the oil and sweat had already done their fair share of damage. 

The men stilled, their heaving breaths and heartbeats slowly returning to normal. Sherlock’s arms remained wrapped around John and he lowered his head to rest on John’s uninjured shoulder. He gave him a final squeeze before pulled back, his half deflated cock slipping easily from between John’s cheeks. 

John let his mind stay blank in the aftermath. He was aware of Sherlock backing away from him, but just for a moment, until he came back with the mostly dried towel from John’s shower that he proceeded to use to clean them both up. He stayed on his knees until Sherlock pulled the duvet back and gently pulled him down under it. John was surprised. He hadn’t let himself form any expectations. Who knew what this had been, after all? But finding himself in a post-coital haze with Sherlock still wrapped around him as the big spoon was something that he found he could quickly grow used to. He relaxed back into Sherlock’s arms. They would figure it out tomorrow. Sherlock was here for now. 

“I meant what I said, you know,” he said softly into John’s ear. 

“Hmm?”

“I can’t lose you. I always thought this would ruin us. I didn’t want to take that chance. But today, in that second when I knew you were going to get hurt and I wouldn’t be able to stop it, I realized my biggest regret if something happened to you would be never having shared this. You know I’m not good with feelings.   
I’m willing to try here. I can no longer bear the alternative.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I likely won’t say it as often as you may wish to hear it, but I… love you, John.”

Silence. 

“John?”

John let out a soft snore, and nestled deeper under the covers. He was asleep. 

Sherlock held him tighter and kissed the top of his head. 

“You’re going to make me say all of that again, aren’t you?”

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to take part in this challenge because I though having a set deadline would force me to finish writing something. So, for better or worse, I can say that I did.


End file.
